LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



BETWEEN TIMES 



WALTER LEARNED 




NEW YORK 
FREDERICK A. STOKES & BROTHER 

MDCCCLXXXIX 



Copyright, i^cg, 
By Frederick A. Stokes & Brother. 



TO A. F. L. 

*' I ^HE child who wanders by the wayside, sees 
Buds in the fields and blossoms in the trees, 
And with unskilful hand essays to bring 
Back to his home these tokens of the spring ; 
Plucks here a stemless bud, a floweret torn, 
A withered calyx of its petals shorn; 
Crushed by the hand that strove to hold them fast, 
He brings a battered nosegay home at last. 
A waste of flowers ! And this, perhaps you think, 
A waste of time, a waste of pen and ink. 
But you'd have kept the flowers. I pray you, look 
Between the halting lines that fill this book. 
To you these too imperfect rhymes I bring, 
Since but for you, I'd not have cared to sing. 



FRIEND TO FRIEND. 

'T^ RUE are your verses t Walter; true. 
And full of merry lights and laughter. 
With deeper tones that tremble through 

The laugh, and linger long, long after. 

Have you not loved the forest-brook 

That under sun or cloud still sparkles 

Gay, rippling, songful — like your book — 

Though here and there the current darkles ? 

I think you've caught that sweet refrain 
Of mingled music, mirth, and sorrow. 

It lives, repeated in your strain : 

Shall it not live for many a morrow ? 



FRIEND TO FRIEND. 



No doubt! — even as the murmuring stream 

Shall whisper on through times unending, 
When other hearts beside it dream. 
With alien eyes above it bending. 

Enough if here and there a friend 

With mind that might be of your choosing. 

Between times /lalt and, listening, lend 
The sympathy there's no refusing. 

Some far-off friend you'll never know — 

When we are gone like shadows fleeting — 

Responding to the rmipid fiow, 

Will hail, as I, your cadcnced greeting. 

George Parsons Lathrop 



INDEX. 

PAGE 

The Song of the Vane i 

Indian Summer 5 

The Wayside Well 7 

To a Fire-Fly 9 

On the Fly-leaf of a Book of Old Plays . . 10 

The Old Waltz 12 

The Tryst , . 16 

Sunshine and Shadow 19 

Free 20 

Transplanted 21 

Hidden 23 

The Dead Rose-Tree 24 

Imprisoned 26 

On the Fly-leaf of Manon Lescaut . . 27 

Like Ships at Sea 29 



viii INDEX. 

PAGE 

Between the Lines 30 

With Pen and Ink 31 

An Episode ....... 33 

The Best of this Kind are but Shadows . . 35 

Cupid and Psyche ...... 37 

In the Looking Glass 39 

The Rehearsal ....... 41 

An Idyl of the Choir 42 

A Souvenir 44 

Philosophy Consoling Love .... 46 

Humility 48 

Her Photograph ,49 

A Bundle of Valentines 

L . . . c . . . . SI 

11 .54 

III 56 

IV 58 

V 59 

Burning the Love-Letters 61 

'T is not Alone that She is Fair ... 62 

Under the Rose 64 



INDEX. XX 

PAGE 

The Chemist and the Rose .... (£ 

Cupid's Kiss . . . . . • . 68 

At the Door . . . . . . . 69 

A Memory . 70 

Serenade 71 

After Summer . . . . , . . 73 

A Study From Nature . • • . . 74 
In Explanation ...... '75 

Tempora Mutantur ...... 76 

To Critics 78 

On the Ocklawaha . . . ... 79 

Growing Old . . . ... , 80 

The Summer Wind 82 

A Lover's Fancy . . . . . . 83 

My True Love . . . . • . 84 

Time's Revenge • • §5 

Every One to His Taste ..... 87 

The Whisper of Love . . . . . 88 

The Prime of Life ...... 91 

At the Sign of the Blind Cupid . . . 93 

In Attendance 95 



X, INDEX. 

PAGE 

Marjorie's Kisses 97 

Five Little White Heads .... 98 

Baby's Letter 99 

Consolation loi 

The Yellow Pane 103 

Waiting 104 

Esther 106 

Whom the Lord Hath Saved ... 108 

At the Golden Gate no 

Translations. 

Resemblance 112 

Euthanasia 114 

The Broken Vase 115 

The Maid and Her Neighbor . . . 117 

If I Could Tell 118 

The Old Tramp 120 

Fifty Years 123' 

The Gadfly 126 

Ugliness and Beauty 129 

Rosette 132 



THE SONG OF THE VANE. 

*" I "^ HERE'S a gilded vane on the tall church spire, 

Which glows by day like a hand of fire. 
When slowly fades the lingering light, 
And the setting sun has said good-night 
To roof, and turret, and window pane, 
He lingers a moment and kisses the vane ; 
And at morn, when the town in shadow lies, 
It catches the flush of the eastern skies. 
And it glistens and gleams in the first bright ray 
That heralds the dawn of hastening day. 
All day over river and field it looks down 
Like a silent sentinel guarding the town, 
To watch, and to warn, if danger there be, 
Threatening the folk by land or sea. 
Over land and sea all day it peers. 
And its gilded finger points and veers : 



THE SONG OF THE VANE. 



This is the way, it seems to say, 
From over the hills, and far away, 
The wind is coming to town to-day. 

Orient, odorous, spice-laden air. 
Sweet as the breath of a maiden fair, 
And warm as love's first ardent vow ; 
From orange grove and blossoming bough, 
From palms where chattering apes have swung, 
And parrots, unlearned in the human tongue, 
Their loves in a softer speech have told, 
Where humming-birds, flaming in scarlet and gold, 
And broad-billed toucan, and cockatoo, 
Are brooding and building the whole year through,' 
From over the hills, and far away, 
The south wind is coming to town to-day. 

Fresh from fields of golden grain 

That have surged and tossed, like a rolling main 

Whose peaceful billows come and go. 

Till the hand of the reaper lays them low. 



THE SONG OF THE VANE. 



Breathing the smoke that he caught, as he went 
Over Indian's camp, and miner's tent, 
From quiet pools, where the specked trout lies, 
And foaming streams where the salmon rise, 
From rocky canon, and prairie wide, 
From trackless forest, and mountain side, — 
From over the hills, and far away, 
The west wind is coming to town to-day. 

Wrapped in fog and mist is he, 
And his breath is damp with the salt, salt sea, 
Dull, leaden clouds are in his train. 
And the rain-drops plash on the window-pane ; 
From sandy beach, and wreck-strewn shore. 
From the troubled ocean where tempests roar, 
And laboring ships beat on their way. 
With bending masts that creak and sway. 
Where the stormy petrel flies skimming past, 
And the sea-gull screams as he breasts the blast,— 
From over the hills, and far away. 
The east wind is coming to town to-day. 



THE SONG OF THE VANE. 



Cold and chill as the hand of death, 
The bright flowers drooped as they felt his breath 
He told his tale to the rain-cloud's ear, 
And it paled, and whitened to snow with fear ; 
The clambering vine he roughly wooed. 
And it blushes and faints at a touch so rude ; 
From frozen fields, and a land of snow, 
From the ice-built hut of the Esquimaux, 
Where threatening bergs the secret keep 
Of an unplowed ocean, an unknown deep, — 
From over the hills, and far away. 
The north wind is coming to town to-day. 

So all day long the vane looks down 
On the roofs of the quaint, old-fashioned town ; 
So all day long it shifts and veers, 
And north, south, east and west it peers : 
This is the way, it seems to say, 
From over the hills, and far away. 
The wind is coming to town to-day. 



INDIAN SUMMER. 

A S some decrepit citizen reviews, 

In dreamy revery, his boyhood o'er, 
Fondly remembering joys that once were his, 
And sighing for the days that are no more, 

So, in these autumn days, the failing year 
Dreams of his youth, forever passed away, 

Stops for awhile his blustering career, 
To spend in quiet retrospect the day. 

He dreams of summer, and again the air 

Grows soft and calm, again the skies grow bright, 

Again, through dreamy mist, the distant hills 
Lose their rough outlines in a mellow light. 



INDIAN SUMMER. 



He dreams of summer's flowers, and through the fields 
Where buttercups and daisies marked the sod, 

Where golden dandelions and blue-bells grew, 
Blossoms the aster and the golden-rod. 

So soft he dreams, so gently comes his breath 
That, where close-reefed she sped before the gale, 

The swelling tide just rocks the fisher's boat, 
That slowly drifts with idly flapping sail. 

Dear quiet autumn days, so calm, so bright, 
Like a sweet, welcome memory you seem, 

So full of tremulous and hazy light. 
So soft, so radiant, so like a dream. 



THE WAYSIDE WELL. 

T T E stopped at the wayside well, 

Where the water was cool and deep ; 
There were feathery ferns 'twixt the mossy stones, 
And gray was the old well-sweep. 

He left his carriage alone ; 

Nor could coachman or footman tell 
Why the master stopped in the dusty road 

To drink at the wayside well. 

He swayed with his gloved hands 

The well-sweep, creaking and slow, 
While from seam and scar in the bucket's side 

The water plashed back below. 



THE WAYSIDE WELL. 



He lifted it to the curb, 

And bent to the bucket's brim ; 
No furrows of time or care had marked 

The face that looked back at him. 

He saw but a farmer's boy 

As he stooped o'er the brim to drink, 
And ruddy and tanned was the laughing face 

That met his over the brink. 

The eyes were sunny and clear, 
And the brow undimmed by care, 

While from under the rim of the old straw hat 
Strayed curls of chestnut hair. 

He turned away with a sigh ; 

Nor could footman or coachman tell 
Why the master stopped in his ride that day 

To drink at the wayside well. 



TO A FIRE-FLY. 

■\ "S 7 HEN the tired bee is slumbering in his cell, 

Dreaming of fragrant flowers with honey 
filled, 
When buzzing fly and piping locust stilled, 

Like quiet citizens in slumber dwell, 

Who is this wanderer that, late at night, 
Over the fields his little lantern swings, 
And traces, as a devious flight he wings, 

His straying pathway by a flashing light ? 
Art thou a reveller whose tiny spark 
Lights thee o'er fields, with riotous comrades 

whirled. 
To spend in mad carouse the midnight hours ? 
Or else a watchman, winging through the dark, 
Guarding the slumbers of the insect world, 
And trying the closed petals of the flowers ? 



ON A FLY-LEAF OF A BOOK OF OLD PLAYS. 

A T Cato's Head in Russel Street 

These leaves she sat a-stitching ; 
I fancy she was trim and neat, 
Blue-eyed and quite bewitching. 

Before her on the street below, 

All powder, ruffs, and laces. 
There strutted idle London beaux 

To ogle pretty faces ; 

While, filling many a Sedan chair 
With monstrous hoop and feather, 

In paint and powder London's fair 
Went trooping past together. 

Swift, Addison, and Pope, mayhap 
They sauntered slowly past her, 



ON A FLY-LEAF OF A BOOK OF OLD PL A VS. ii 

Or printer's boy, with gown and cap 
For Steele, went trotting faster. 

For beau nor wit had she a look ; 

Nor lord nor lady minding, 
She bent her head above this book, 

Attentive to her binding. 

And one stray thread of golden hair, 

Caught on her nimble fingers, 
Was stitched within this volume, where 

Until to-day it lingers. 

Past and forgotten, beaux and fair. 

Wigs, powder, all outdated ; 
A queer antique, the Sedan chair, 

Pope, stiff and antiquated. 

Yet as I turn these odd, old plays, 

This single stray lock finding, 
I'm back in those forgotten days 

And watch her at her binding. 



A 



THE OLD WALTZ. 

N organ-grinder ! If I knew 
Some soft Italian curse or two, 
With emphasis upon it, 
I'd shout to him whose tuneless din 
Has so unkindly broken in 
Upon me and my sonnet. 

Across the street, and at the door, 
I see him standing there before 

The dwelling of my neighbor. 
The house is closed, the curtains down 
I know my neighbor's out of town, 

And vain the minstrel's labor. 



THE OLD WALTZ. 



But yet two small admirers stand 
Gravely before him hand in hand, 

Front row — dress circle — center- 
A boy, a girl without a hat ; 
But with a battered sunshade that 

Some older child has lent her. 



The minstrel pauses — What, so soon ! 
He turns a stop to change the tun-e. 

No coin responsive finding, 
He eyes the windows that reveal 
No sign ; then with a fresh appeal 

Resumes his patient grinding. 

And, lo ! the minstrel 's lost to view ; 
The boy and girl have vanished too ; 

The street, my neighbor's dwelling- 
All, all are gone ; and I am there 
Sitting again upon the stair 

My tale to Mabel telling. 



THE OLD WALTZ. 



While from the crowded rooms steal out 
The strains of music, where the rout 

Whose chatter and whose dances 
We've left, still whirling waltz, the while 
I whisper low to Mabel's smile 

And watch for Mabel's glances. 

I bring no blushes to her cheek, 
Nor as an ardent lover speak ; 

But rather as a brother 
I take a confidential tone, 
And find we're both inclined to own 

We understand each other. 

She is not always gay — nor I. 

My fingers just clasp hers. We sigh. 

Life is a serious matter. 
Better this moment on the stair, 
This sympathy complete and rare. 

Than hours of idle chatter. 



THE OLD WALTZ. 



Better this touch — 

The grinder's done : 
He slowly lifts his box with one 

Glance, sad, reproachful, hollow, 
Up to my neighbor's vacant blind, 
Then takes his way ; and close behind 

The two small children follow. 



THE TRYST. 

T AM stretched on the grass and am watching the 

sky, 
As the sunset clouds go drifting by, 
And wondering whether such glorious weather, 
Such blush of clouds, and such bloom of heather, 
Would grow commonplace if it lasted forever. 
And sunsets would pall if they faded never. 

There's a red cloud over, that seems a boat ; 

What a charming thing it would be to float 

Day after day in a lazy way. 

With nothing to do and nothing to say ; 

With a book perhaps and a pipe no doubt, 

And a chance to come down when you get tired out. 



THE TRYST. 



There's a rustle of leaves, and a step on the grass, — 
I descend from the clouds to see somebody pass. 
Somebody's young and very fair, 
With a blush on her cheek and a rose in her hair ; 
She is walking down the path from town, 
Dressed in a charmingly dainty gown. 

She swings her hat, and the wind, not cold, 

Yet not too warm nor overbold. 

Just stirs the curls above her brow ; 

And, if it can wait, or the wind knows how 

It waits, I guess, to stop and press 

On her cheek or her lip a light caress. 

She waits, she lingers, she stops and turns. 

But it isn't for me her fancy yearns ; 

For — well-a-day ! it is hard to say. 

But at forty, one is rather J>asse, 

And a pretty young maid won't wait, I'm afraid. 

For a bachelor, gray and beginning to fade. 

I hear a whistle, I see her blush ; 

I fancied it might be a quail or thrush ; 



i8 THE TRYST, 



But never a bird whose note I've heard 

Would have moved her pulses as they've been stirred ; 

And it wasn't by fear. Ah, it's very clear 

That somebody, somebody's coming near. 

She quickens her pace and she casts down her eyes ; 

She means to pretend it was all a surprise. 

" What ! you here ? " she will say. — Now he leaps o'er 

the wall. 
They have met ; he bends down ; he is handsome and 

tall; 
And though I'm not near, and can't very well hear, 
Yet what they are saying is certainly clear. 

For the story is old, and has often been told. — 
Heigh ! the sky's growing gray and the night's getting 

cold; 
I am off, and they're parting ; one left and one right, 
Turning back, looking back, till they're both out of 

sight. 
And they think, I suppose, that nobody knows 
That he gave her a kiss, and she gave him a rose. 



SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 

T T E came — the day was dull and dead, 
The skies were cold and gray ; 
The slanting rain beat on the pane, 

And blurred the tossing bay. 
But oh, so dear his tender tone, 

His smile so sweet to see, 
That in my heart the sunlight shone, 
And all was fair to me. 

He's gone — the day is fresh and fair, 

The skies are warm and bright, 
The robin sings ; the blithe bee wings 

O'er fragrant fields his flight ; 
But dimmed and blurred through tearful eyes 

The sunlit bay I see ; 
For on my heart a shadow lies 

And all is dark to me. 



FREE. 

A DOVE lay caught in a fowler's snare ; 

By cruel cords her wings were pressed, 
Ruffled was all her plumage fair, 
And her heart beat fast in her panting breast 

But the fowler loosened each knot and twist, 
He smoothed her ruffled plumes, and then 

Her snowy bosom he gently kissed. 
And bade her seek the skies again. 

And the fowler sighed ; for, safe and fair 
In summer skies, he knew that she 

Would think of the cord and the cruel snare, 
But not of the hand that had set her free. 



TRANSPLANTED. 

T T ALF hidden by the dead brown leaves that lie 

Upon my path, I found a wee flower fair. 
Too frail it seemed for April's fickle sky, 
While yet the dull, gray trees no verdure wear. 

" Too fair this flower," I said, " to grace a wood, 
These pale, pink blossoms, odorous and sweet ; 

With tender care in some brave garden, should 
Be placed these flowerets growing 'neath my 
feet." 

I cannot tell if they did miss the whir 

Of startled partridge, or the pattering tread 

Of nimble squirrel, or the leaf and burr 
And cool, gray moss that made their woodland 
bed: 



TRA NSPLA NTED. 



But in my garden, where with brilliant hue 
Flaunted the scarlet rose in all her pride, 

Where velvet pansies, and where violets grew, 
These pale, sweet blossoms faded, drooped, and died. 



HIDDEN. 

T IKE some fair flower in woodland coverts grow- 
ing, 

Breathing unsought its faint perfume, 
To heaven alone its veined petals showing, 

Through fallen leaves that mask its bloom ; 

So in my heart there dwells a love unspoken, 

A trust unsought, a wish unsaid ; 
Hidden from all save heaven alone, the token 

Of love that lives where hope is dead. 



THE DEAD ROSE-TREE. 

T 1 7 HEN the crocus peeps through the breaking 
earth, 
And the violet stirs with the breath of spring, 
When swelling buds foretell the birth 

Of the leaf and blossom that summer shall bring; 
One rose-tree then stands brown and bare, 
Save some withered leaves that the wooing air 
Softly breathes upon in vain; 
For never warm sun nor gentle rain 
Can call back the dead to life again. 

Ah, love will bloom like the summer flowers, 
A word, or a glance, and a fair, sweet face, 

And as by April's shine and showers. 
Through smiles and tears it grows apace. 



THE DEAD ROSE-TREE. 



But there is a memory seared and dry, 
Of a love that lived in days gone by ; 
And when with smile or tear I fain 
Would call it back to life again, 
I know that smile and tear are vain. 



IMPRISONED. 

TIT HEN to the caged bird 

Comes spring's reviving breeze, 
And his sad heart is stirred 
By blossom-laden trees, 
In the soft air he plumes his drooping wings, 
And, his captivity forgot, he sings. 

But if afar he hears 

The answer of his mate, 
Lonely his lot appears, 

His prison desolate. 
Hushed then his song, and mute, in wild unrest, 
Frantic against the bars he beats his breast. 



ON THE FLY-LEAF OF MANON LESCAUT. 

' I ^O you, whose temperate pulses flow 

With measured beat, serene and slow, 
The even tenor of whose way 
Is undisturbed by passion's swa}', 
This tale of wayward love may seem 
The record of a fevered dream. 
And yet, we too have that within 
To make us what our kind have been. 
A lure more strong, a wish more faint. 
Makes one a monster, one a saint ; 
And even love, by difference nice, 
Becomes a virtue or a vice. 
The briar, that o'er the garden wall 
Trails its sweet blossoms till they fall 



ON THE FLY-LEAF OF MANON LESCA b T. 

Across the dusty road, and then 

Are trodden under foot of men, 

Is sister to the decorous rose 

Within the garden's well-kept close, 

Whose pinioned branches may not roam 

Out and beyond their latticed home. 

There's many a life of sweet content 

Whose virtue is environment. 

They erred, they fell ; and yet, 'tis true, 

They hold the mirror up to you. 



LIKE SHIPS AT SEA. 

T IKE ships at sea, that side by side 
With idle sails at eventide 
Upon the unruffled waters lie, 
So, for an instant, you and I 
Drift here together on life's tide. 

Our port, our venture, and beside 
Our course, to each to serve as guide. 
Across the narrow space we cry, 
Like ships at sea. 

With swelling sails we swifter glide, 
And soon across the distance wide. 
One scarcely hears the faint good-bye ; 
And so, to meet no more for aye, 
Upon life's main, our paths divide, 
Like ships at sea. 



BETWEEN THE LINES. 

13 ETWEEN the lines the smoke hung low, 
And shells flew screaming to and fro, 
"While blue or gray in sharp distress 
Rode fast, their shattered lines to press 
Again upon the lingering foe. 

'T is past — and now the roses blow 
Where war was waging years ago ; 
And naught exists save friendliness 
Between the lines. 

To you, who made the traveller know 
In Southern homes how warm hearts glow, 
Let even this halting verse express 
Some measure of true thankfulness, 
And grateful, loving memory show 
Between the lines. 



WITH PEN AND INK. 

T T 7ITH pen and ink one might indite 
A sonnet, or indeed might write 
A billet-doux, or, eke to raise 
The wind, a note for thirty days. 

Not mine the poem ; they'd send it back 
Or shove it into Bric-a-Brac. 
My flippant muse is never seen 
Within the solid magazine. 

And not for me the billet-doux; 
Indeed, whom should I write it to ? 
I would not thus employ my pen, 
Unless to woo my wife again. 



WITH PEN AND INK 



Ah me ! the while I stop to think 
What Shakespeare did with pen and ink, 
I wonder how his ink was made, — 
If blue or purple was the shade ; 

His pen — broad-nibbed and rather stiff, 
Like this, or fine ? I wonder if 
He tried a " Gillott," thirty-nine, 
Or used a coarser pen, like mine ? 

Or was it brains ? No ink I know 
Will really make ideas flow, 
Nor can the most ingenious pen 
Make wits and poets of dull men. 

So this the miracle explains, 
He used his pen and ink with brains. 
Mine is the harder task, I think, 
To write with only pen and ink. 



AN EPISODE. 

T T riTH never a word she passed me by. 

With never a look or sign ; 
She silently went her way, and I 
As silently went on mine. 

No one could have dreamed who saw her face, 

As we so coldly met, 
That her heart was touched by the faintest trace 

Of memory or regret 

Nor do I think that one apart 

Who watched my tranquil brow, 
Would have guessed that the memory stirred ray 
heart 

Of a faithless, broken vow. 



AN EPISODE. 



And they need not have guessed or wondered, you see, 

For this was the reason why — 
I didn't know her, and she didn't know me, 

And so — she passed me by. 



THE BEST OF THIS KIND ARE BUT 
SHADOWS. 

/'^N VER the way at my neighbor's v^indow, 
The light in her chamber casts a shade, 
And pictures her en silhouette on the curtain, 
An impression in black of a charming maid. 

Now is portrayed an arm that is shapely, 
Then a wavy shade as of falling hair, 

Then it sways and turns with a faint suggestion 
Of unhooking here and unlacing there. 

Now it swells and looms till it fills the curtain, 
A figure grotesquely huge, and then, 

Swift as a dream, it glides before me, 
And lo, the curtain is blank again. 



36 THE BBS T OF THIS KIND ARE BUT SHA DO JVS. 

Once more it comes, a face in profile, 
A well-poised head, with braided hair, 

And then the light is gone, and the darkness 
Blots out the vision so sweet and fair. 

My pipe, my book again and my slippers ; 

A truce to this dreaming. I dare say the maid 
Would prove less kind and fair than her shadow 

That I watched to-night on the window-shade. 



CUPID AND PSYCHE. 

\ rOU have read of the story of Cupid and Psyche, 
How her lover was coy and would not be seen, 
Till one evening she crept with a lamp to his chamber. 
And spilled on his shoulder some hot kerosene. 

The fair god awoke, oped his eyes, spread his pinions, 
And betook him at once from her bed and her heart, 

As indignant he flew to the first pharmaceutist's. 
For bi-carbon of soda to soften the smart. 

There's more than one moral to this little story. 

There's the obvious one to take care of your light. 
And a finer, which warns that love seeks gentle treat- 
ment ; 
Come too close, handle roughly, and, lo ! he takes 
flight. 



3S CUPID AND PSYCHE. 

It was not long since that he came to my dwelling, 
This god, fair and fickle, whose rambles I sing, 

But too closely I pressed, and too fondly I plied him, 
Till he fled, and I fear with a smart on his wing. 

Yet Cupid returned w^hen his wing had ceased aching, 
And in Psyche's soft arms he forgot all his pain. 

Ah, might he once more but tap at my casement, 
So softly, so sweetly I'd greet him again. 



k 



IN THE LOOKING-GLASS. 

"f T 7 ITH drooping head, and eye downcast, 

No word she spake ; but sweet and low 
She heard his whispered words, that made 

On her fair cheek the color glow. 
He lower stoops, until his lips 

Touch hers, and coyly, then, the lass 
Over his shoulder peeped to see 
The picture in the looking-glass, 

A petite figure, neat and trim ; 

An arm around the slender waist, 
That lightly held a yielding form, 

With head upon his shoulder placed. 



IN THE LOOKING-GLASS. 



Dark, liquid eyes, and dimpled chin ; 

Of chestnut hair, a braided mass ; 
Ripe lips brushed by a brown mustache 

Was the picture in the looking-glass. 

No gem of Watteau or of Frere, 

No picture of Millais, I ween, 
No artful canvas ere could vie 

In beauty with that mirrored scene. 
And even to paint its loveliness, 

My words are all too faint, alas. 
Good-night, sweet. Look ! see there's the same 

Fair picture in your looking-glass. 



THE REHEARSAL. 

'T^HERE, as we stand, and when I say, "my love, 
I'll to your side a trifle closer, so. 
Good ! Now I put my arm around your waist. 
Your cue to whisper, " Ernest, dear," you know. 

That's right, I think. Ah, what is that you say 
The stage directions only say " a kiss " ? 

Let's see the book. Upon, my word, you're right ! 
And I took two, which clearly was amiss. 

I'm glad you called attention to the slip. 

Wait till I con the book a moment — then. 
For fear my treacherous memory play me false. 

Suppose we just run through this scene again. 



AN IDYL OF THE CHOIR. 

O HE sat on the steps of the organ-loft 
^ Just after the second hymn ; 
And through nave and choir to the cool gray spire 

The sound rose faint and dim, 
As they settled themselves in the church below 

For the sermon that followed next, 
And I seated myself at the alto's side 
As the parson took his text. 



I marked the tender flush of her cheek, 
And the gleam of her golden hair. 

The snowy kerchief 'round her neck, 
And her throat all white and bare ; 



AN IDYL OF THE CHOIR. 43 

A throat so white that indeed it might 

An anchorite entice ; 
And I faintly heard the parson's word 

As he preached of Paradise. 

My arm stole gently 'round her waist 

Until our fingers met ; 
And a flitting blush made the tender flush 

Of her cheek grow deeper yet. 
Snowy and fair the hand beneath, 

And brown the palm above, 
And the brown closed softly over the white 

As the parson spoke of love. 

Ah, who is wise, when deep-blue eyes 

Meet his and look coyly down ? 
Who would but drink, nor care to think 

Of envy's jealous frown ? 
'T was but to bend till I felt her breath 

Grow warm on my cheek, and then 
My lips just softly touched her own 

As th- parson sa^d, Amen. 



A SOUVENIR. 



5 'T^IS but a little veil of blue, 
Yet would my pulses stir, 
And memory limn the owner fair, 
Could I remember her. 



Pensive and sad I fain would sit, 
Fond would my reverie be, 

And sweet my dream, could I recall 
Who gave this veil to me. 

Was she a blonde, with laughing face 
And bosom white as snow, 

Or was she dark and mournful-eyed? 
Alas, I do not know. 



A SOUVENIR. 



Were we within a sheltered nook 
Beneath the whispering trees, 

Or did we idly dream, and float 
O'er moonlit summer seas ? 

We softly spoke our mutual love — 
We loved — I'm sure of this ; 

There was, I think, a sigh or two, 
A dovmcast glance — a kiss. 

She gave me then this gage d\imoiir^ 
This veil — I have it yet — 

That, seeing it, I might recall 
That day when last we met. 

And so I would, could I retrace • 

Her face, or if I knew 
Her name. I don't ; I only know 

She wore a veil of blue. 



PHILOSOPHY CONSOLING LOVE. 

/'^II, why did she ever return them, 
This bundle of fond billets-doux ? 
There's naught for it now but to burn them, 
But first let me read the lot through. 

As fondly past pleasures recalling 
I think of my lost love and all, 

I know the sad tears should be falling — 
But somehow the tears will not fall. 

There's a consciousness over me stealing 
That, whatever people may say. 

No sensible girl of fine feeling 

Would ever have thrown me away. 

Why, look at this note I am reading ! 

By George ! who would ever have guessed 
She could have resisted the pleading 

Of a passion so neatly expressed ? 



PHILOSOPHY CONSOLING LOVE. 



And why should a man feel dejected 
Who's been casting his pearls before swine ? 

Why, hang it ! I'm really affected 
On reading these letters of mine. 

It strikes me that for delicate fancy, 
Quaint conceits full of feeling and art. 

They're unique, and I'm blest if I can see 
How she read without losing her heart. 

Here's a poem ; how consummate that verse is ; 

Ah, the maid who could read it unmoved 
By the love it so sweetly rehearses, 

Surely does not deserve to be loved. 

Had she feeling and wit she'd not spurn them ; 

Well, I'll read them all over, and then 
I think on the whole I'll not burn them, 

Sometime I may use them again. 



HUMILITY. 

"\ rOU say, when I kissed you, you are sure I must 
quite 
Have forgotten myself. So I did ; you are right. 
No, I'm not such an egotist, dear, it is true, 
As to think of myself when I'm looking at you. 



HER PHOTOGRAPH. 

T KNOW the photographer pinned 
A little white card on the screen, 
When he'd wrapped up his head in a cloth 

And focused his picture machine ; 
And as he turned back to the chair, 

I am equally certain that he 
Said, " Won't you look right at this card ? " 

Yet she seems to be looking at me. 

And after arranging her chin, 

And twisting and turning her head, 
And adjusting the folds of her dress, 

I am sure the photographer said, 
** Now, please, for a moment sit still 

And smile 'till you hear me count three ; ' 
As he whisked off the camera's cap ; 

Yet she seems to be smiling at me. 



so HER PHOTOGRAPH. 

I presume that she thought it'a bore, 

And that she was quite ill at ease ; 
Saw little black specks in her eyes, 

And felt a temptation to sneeze ; 
That she wondered how long it would take, 

And what sort of a picture 't would be : 
And yet, when I look at the face, 

She seems to be thinking of me. 

And when the brief seconds were passed, 

And the artist had said, " That is all ; " 
I presume, as she rose from the chair, 

She only said, " When shall I call ? " 
But the message that waits on these lips, 

That smiling, half-parted, I see, 
Is as sweet and as fair as her face ; 

And it seems to be waiting for me. 



A BUNDLE OF VALENTINES. 
I. 

AN OLD ONE. 

T T ELP me, good Saint, my cause to plead. 
Who, having naught of outward grace, 
Nor aught of wit or wisdom, need 
Some advocate to win my case. 

Say, with what reason may I woo 
Her, in whom all perfections dwell ? 

"With what advantage may I sue 
For her fair favor ? Prithee tell ! 



AN OLD VALENTINE. 



So sweet her mien, her face so fair, 
Her ways so charming, so divine, 

I wait and worship in despair ; 
Help me, I pray, St. Valentine ! 



A bundle of letters ! The boyish handwriting 
Is strangely familiar — a queer, straggling hand ; 

Yet the exquisite pains that he took in inditing 
These rhymes and these notes, I can quite under- 
stand. 

The paper is old, and the ribbon is faded ; 

I fancy it once was a charming sky-blue ; 
It is crumpled and creased, but I'm almost persuaded 

It was tied in a love-knot v/hen first it was new. 

On the top of the pile are the lines I have quoted, 
And the date, well-a-day, it is some years ago. 

As people grow old, I have frequently noted 

They don't like to publish how fast the years flow. 



AN OLD VALENTINE. 



They have carried me back to the day when I wrote 
them. 
1 remember my hopes and my fears at that time, — 
How I wished she would give me occasion to quote 
them, 
And add something in prose to my pleadings in 
rhyme. 

And did she ? Kind Saint, let an offering votive 
Be paid thee each Valentine's Day of my life. 

She did, though I'm sure I can't say from what motive, — 
And this bundle of letters belongs to my wife. 



II. 



T 'M poor in this world's goods, sweetheart; 

Of gold I have no store ; 
Yet grant me but this single prayer, 

And I'll not crave for more. 
For there's one word that thou canst speak 

To me, thy Valentine, 
'T would make me richer than a king, — 
'T would make the whole world mine. 

Could I with diamonds deck thy hair. 

Or load thine arms with gold, 
There's naught on earth that's rich or rare 

But should its charms unfold 



A VALENTINE. 



To grace thy form ; but I 've no gems, 

Nor gold, nor jewels fine ; 
Yet there's one word which thou canst speak,- 

'T would make the whole world mine. 

Speak, then ! Thy lover listening waits 

A beggar at thy door. 
A prince's ransom 'tis I ask, 

A kingdom, aye, and more. 
And yet, 'tis but a single word, 

But, by St. Valentine !— 
Whisper it in my ear but once, — 

'T will make the whole world mine. 



III. 

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN 

T^ AIR reader of this verse of mine, 
Concerning whom it may ; 
A privilege St. Valentine 

Grants errant knights to-day ; 

If you but e'er so lightly think 
Of him, whose truant rhymes 

Have wandered here in printers' ink 
To catch your eye betimes, 

Why so my idle fancy turns 
To wonder who and where 

You are who read ; and even discerns 
That you are young and fair. 



A VALENTINE. 57 



And thus our brief acquaintance ends ; 

Nor was it all for naught. 
Henceforth not strangers we, but friends 

Who once have met in thought. 



A 



IV. 

TO A. F. L. 

S one who on some battle-field 



Receives a mortal wound, and knows 
He needs no more the covering shield, 
Nor dreads the onslaught of his foes, 

So, though 't is Cupid's day again. 
And thick and fast his arrows fly, 

I shrink not from the deadly rain ; 
Unscathed, unharmed, they pass me by. 

For long ago his work was done, 
And so the cunning archer saith, 

He need not waste a shaft on one 
Whom he hath wounded unto death. 



V. 

TO MY DAUGHTER. 

T T ER kiss is warm upon my cheek, 
She is not coy nor shy ; 
Her arms were clinging round my neck, 
When she bade me good-by. 



She whispers soft her love for me, 

And I tell her of mine ; 
Sweetheart, no other maid could be 

So dear a valentine. 



She loves me more than all the world, 

Yet sadly I foresee, 
As time rolls on, some other swain 

May be preferred to me. 



6o A VALENTINE. 



This little daughter mine, 
Another's vows might prove more dear 
Than papa's valentine. 



BURNING THE LOVE-LETTERS. 

A SHES to ashes, dust to dust, 

When life has quit this mortal frame. 
When Love is at his last, we must 
Bury him thus, with flame to flame. 



'TIS NOT ALONE THAT SHE IS FAIR. 

' 'TPIS not alone that she is fair, — 

So many another maid might be, 
Whose dimpled cheeks, and wavy hair, 
Whose smiles and frowns are naught to me. 
Not in her beauty lies the spell ; 
Then where ? Ah, that I cannot tell 1 
But this alone I know, forsooth, — 
I know I love thee, charming Ruth. 

'T is not the music of her tone, 
Although her voice be sweet and low : 

Why should it charm my heart alone 
When other voices sweet I know ? 



' TIS NOT ALONE THA T SHE IS FAIR. 63 

No, 't is not there that lies the spell : 
Then where ? Ah, that I cannot tell ; 

But this alone I know, forsooth, — 

I know I love thee, charming Ruth. 

'T were vain the mystery to pry ; 

Let me then take thee as thou art, 
Nor strive with futile art to spy 
The hidden secrets of the heart. 
This know, I would not break the spell 
That lies, — Ah, where, I cannot tell I 
Let me then be content, forsooth. 
To know I love thee, charming Ruth. 



UNDER THE ROSE. 

np HERE'S a rose at the top of you; letter, sweet- 
heart, 

By which little bud, I suppose, 
You intended to say, in a delicate way, 

That your letter was written me under the rose. 

'T is true of half of one's life, sweetheart, 

Of full half of our cares and our woes ; 
We laugh and we smile, but all of the while 

The tears may be falling, love, under the rose. 

And so it is true of life's pleasures, sweetheart, 

Stolen pleasures which nobody knows, 
When some dear form we press in a loving caress, 

And ripe lips meet ours, darling, under the rose. 



UNDER THE ROSE. 65 

Give me then this bud which is secrecy's sign ; 

To the world may it never miclose. 
My friends may be few, be they charming as you, 

And I'll love them, sweet, under the rose. 



THE CHEMIST AND THE ROSE. 

'T^HERE once was a chemist who found a rose, 
Dewy and fresh in its fragrant bloom. 
" I wonder," quoth he, " how this fair flower grows, 
And from whence it gathers its sweet perfume." 

So he plucked the rose in this belief; 

" I will carry it home and search out where, 
Deftly hidden in petal or leaf. 

Is this fragrance sweet that scents the air." 

Then over his fire with alembic and still 
He burned it up, and he boiled it down 

With acids and alkalies, until 

The rose and its sweet perfume were gone. 



THE CHEMIST AND THE ROSE. 67 

*Tis folly indeed that one should care 

The sweets of life to analyze. 
To drink one's fill of the perfumed air 

Is the only way to be truly wise. 



CUPID'S KISS. 

"T^WAS as she slept that Cupid came, 
His bow and arrows taking, 
That she might feel his power in dreams 
Who scorned his weapons waking. 

As o'er her sleeping form he poised 
The shaft that long had missed her, 

Her beauty touched his roguish heart — 
He only stopped and kissed her. 

Since when, upon her fair, soft cheek 
Love's amorous imprint keeping, 

A charming dimple marks the place 
Where Cupid kissed her, sleeping. 



AT THE DOOR. 

T T was just for a moment Rose stopped at the door, 

In the dim twilight | 
And I halted, and stammered, and said no more 
Than just, good-night. 

Yet now I can think of a thousand things 

That I meant to say, 
And the words come as fast as if they had wings, 

When she is away. 

For I think her charming ; but how can she know 

What I think aright, 
When the best I can do is to stammer so, 

And say, good-night. 



A MEMORY. 

/^UT from the leaves of my " Lucile " 
Falls a faded violet. 
Sweet and faint as its fragrance, steal 
Out from the leaves of my " Lucile " 
Tender memories, and I feel 

A sense of longing and regret. 
Out from the leaves of my " Lucile " 
Falls a faded violet. 



SERENADE. 

TPVREAM of me, dear, to-night, 
When all the world is still, 
While in the pale moonlight 
Slumbers each vale and hill. 



Fold your white arms abreast, 
Dreaming that I am near ; 

Whispering your love confessed, 
Whisper, and I shall hear ! 



Till lips, through kisses dumb. 
Strive to speak love in vain ; 

Kisses that gently come 
As falls the summer rain. 



72 SERENADE. 



So let them softly fall, 

Sweet may those kisses seem. 
Love, I shall know it all, 

Though it be but a dream. 



AFTER SUMMER. 

qUMMER'S bloom is almost past; 

^^^^ Autumn's chill is in the air. 
Love, since summer will not last, 
Let us find the whole year fair. 
If we look through lover's eyes. 
Even soft are winter's skies. 



A STUDY FROM NATURE. 

'np* HE robin plucks the berry red, 
And tastes its spicy flavor 
The dainty bee the floweret woos, 
And sips its honeyed favor. 

'T is Nature's universal law 

Her sweets should not be wasted. 

If fruit and flower a lover find, 
Should ripe lips pout untasted ? 



IN EXPLANATION. 

T T ER lips were so near 
"*■ -■■ That— what else could I do? 
You'll be angry, I fear, 

But her lips were so near — 
Well, I can't make it clear, 

Or explain it to you, 
But — her lips were so near 
That— what else could I do ? 



TEMPORA MUTANTUR. 

"T) EFORE the photograph was known 
Some artist limned this miniature ; 
Your grandmamma, and one must own 
Its likeness to yourself, I'm sure. 

Yet as I look upon it, dear, 
The curious dress, the banded hair, 

At first I say — how very queer — 
And then I add — how very fair. 

And here's your picture by its side ; 

Your latest photograph, — the hat, 
The dress, the gloves, — you know with pride 

They're quite the mode, and all of that. 



TEMPORA MUTANTUR. 



Serenely conscious of your art, 

Before the camera you stood. 
A rival belle must, in her heart, 

Own that the picture's very good. 

I>ut fashions change ; in years to come 
They'll say, — how queer the dress, the hair. 

Some call it very quaint, and some 
Quite odd, but all must call it fair. 



TO CRITICS. 

T T 7" HEN I was seventeen I heard 

From each censorious tongue, 
" I'd not do that if I were you, 
You see you're rather young." 

Now that I number forty years, 

I'm quite as often told 
Of this or that I shouldn't do 

Because I'm quite too old. 

O carping world ! If there's an age 
Where youth and manhood keep 

An equal poise, alas ! I must 
Have passed it in my sleep. 



ON THE OCKLAWAHA. 

'T^ HOUGH perfumes scent the air, 
And skies are soft and blue, 
Though shores be fresh and fair, 
I long for you, for you. 

I sigh for cold gray skies, 

And the chill sleet slanting through. 
It is fair — but I close my eyes 

And I long for you, for you. 



GROWING OLD. 



O WEET sixteen is shy and cold, 
*^Calls me "sir," and thinks me old; 
Hears in an embarrassed way 
All the compliments I pay ; 



Finds my homage quite a bore, 
Will not smile on me, and more 
To her taste she finds the noise 
And the chat of callow boys. 



Not the lines around my eye, 
Deepening as the years go by; 
Not white hairs that strew my head, 
Nor my less elastic tread ; 



GROWING OLD. 



Cares I find, nor joys I miss, 
Make me feel my years like this : — 
Sweet sixteen is shy and cold, 
Calls me " sir," and thinks me old. 



THE SUMMER WIND. 

O OFTLY the summer wind woos the rose ; 
Like a fickle lover 
He kisses her petals, then off he goes 
The fair fields over. 

Yet since he has kissed her, forever the rose 

Her heart uncloses ; 
And he breathes thereafter, wherever he goes, 

The perfume of roses. 



A LOVER'S FANCY. 

T WOULD my lady's mirror be 

So might I hold her image fair ; 
And then perchance she'd smile on me, 
Seeing her face reflected there. 

I never could her mirror be, 

For when she smiled on me, — ah, then 
My heart would hold the vision sweet, 

And never give it back again. 



MY TRUE LOVE. 

T~^0 you know to what kingdom my true love 
^^^ belongs, 

To the earth or the sky or the sea ? 
She belongs to them all, aye ! every one ; 

For she's all of the world to me. 

There are flashes of gold in her hair, 
And her teeth are the pearls of the sea, 

There is heaven's own blue in her eyes, — 
So she's all of the world to me. 



TIME'S REVENGE. 

T T 7 HEN I was ten and she fifteen — 
Ah, me, how fair I thought her ! 
She treated with disdainful mien 

The homage that I brought her. 
And, in a patronizing way, 
Would of my shy advances say : 
" It's really quite absurd, you see ; 
He's very much too joung for me." 

I'm twenty now, she twenty-five — 
Well, well ! how old she's growing ! 

I fancy that my suit might thrive 
If pressed again ; but owing 



86 TIME ' 6- RE VENGE. 

To great discrepancy in age, 
Her marked attentions don't engage 
My young affections, for, you see, 
She's really quite too old for me. 



EVERY ONE TO HIS TASTE. 

T 1 r HEN Strephon sees a blushing cheek 
In sweet conceits his soul doth speak ; 
And with a soft aesthetic sigh 
He would he were a butterfly. 

Perchance with less poetic grace, 
I, bending o'er a blushing face 
Coyly concealed behind a fan, 
Am quite content to be a man. 



THE WHISPER OF LOVE. 

1 '• AIR was the lily with maidenly grace, 

Lithe her figure ; the night, with a sigh, 
Left, as they parted, a tear on her face, 

And the south wind kissed her as he passed by. 
Blithe was the bee, and he hummed a song 

As over the morning fields he flew. 
Ogling the flowers as he passed along, 
Till he reached the spot where the lily grew. 
In thy bosom, sweetheart, I'll lie, 
Soft and sweet will the moments fly ; 
Never we'll heed them, you and I, 
As I whisper my love for thee. 



THE WHISPER OF LOVE. 89 

Around and above her he winged his flight ; 
Tender his words, and his song was low ; 
For he saw, untouched by the wind or the night, 

The sweets half hid in her bosom of snow. 
Tender his words, and his voice was clear ; 

Light his wing as he touched her face. 
He softly kissed off the morning's tear, 
And sang, as she yielded to his embrace : 
In thy bosom, sweetheart, I'll lie, 
Soft and sweet will the moments fly ; 
Never we'll heed them, you and I, 
As I whisper my love for thee. 

Deep he sipped and the flower bent low, 

Swaying her slender form adown. 
As she felt him pressing her bosom of snow, 

And yielded her sweets to her lover brown. 
Low she bent and her heart was dry 

As her lover flew over the fields again ; 
Only a kiss, as he said good-by, 

Humming ever the old refrain : 



go THE WHISPER OF LOVE. 

In thy bosom, sweetheart, I'll lie, 
Soft and sweet will the moments fly : 
Never we'll heed them, you and I, 
As I whisper my love for thee. 



THE PRIME OF LIFE. 

JUST as I thought I was growing old ; 
Ready to sit in my easy chair, 
To watch the world with a heart grown cold, 
And smile at a folly I would not share, 



Rose came by with a smile for me, 
And I am thinking that forty year 

Isn't the age that it seems to be, 
When two pretty brown eyes are near. 



Bless me, of life it is just the prime ; 

A fact that I hope she will understand, 
And forty year is a perfect rhyme 

To dark brown eyes and a pretty hand. 



THE PRIME OF LIFE. 



These gray hairs are by chance, you see ;- 
Boys are sometimes gray I am told ; — 

Rose came by with a smile for me, 
Just as I thought I was getting old. 



AT THE SIGN OF THE BLIND CUPID. 



W 



HEN blushing cheeks and downcast eyes 
Set all the heart aflame, 
When love within a dimple lies 

And constancy's a name, 
Since every lass is passing fair, 

Cupid must fly and see ; 
And, lightly flitting here and there, 

A winged boy is he. 



When creeping years steal on apace, 

And youth and vigor go. 
When time with wrinkles marks the face 

And strews the hair with snow, 



A T THE SIGN OF THE BLIND CUPID. 

Ah, then no winged boy is he ; 

But strong- limbed and complete, 
With blinded eyes that need not see, 

Since memory guides his feet. 



IN ATTENDANCE. 

FOR A PAGE IN THE ALBUM. 

A T the door where the caliph was sleeping, 

Haroun al Raschid the Great, 

For the Prince of the Faithful, keeping 

Their watch at his chamber of state, 

The poets of the realm stood waiting. 

Each in his turn to rehearse. 
That the heart of the caliph, dilating, 

Might be soothed by the sound of their verse. 

For whenever the caliph was weary, 
Heavy-hearted, and sighed for the light, 

He would call to his Vizier this query : 
" What poet 's at the door to-night ? " 



IN A TTENDANCE. 



Then El Asmai, of singers the sweetest, 

Or Mensour en Menri, the peer 
Of all poets, or Nuas, the neatest 

Of rhymesters, called, " Prince, I am here I " 

And here, in these vellum pages, 

We wait, as in days of yore 
The poets of bygone ages 

Attended the caliph's door. 

And, unworthy to stand at the portal, 

I fain would my homage confer 
In verses, which may prove immortal 

Because they were written to her. 



MARJORIE'S KISSES. 

TV yr ARJORIE laughs and climbs on my knee, 
And I kiss her, and she kisses me. 
I kiss her, but I don't much care. 
Because, although she is charming and fair, 
Marjorie's only three. 

But there will come a time, I ween. 
When, if I tell her of this little scene. 
She will smile and prettily blush, and then 
I shall long in vain to kiss her again. 
When Marjorie's seventeen. 



FIVE LITTLE WHITE HEADS. 

I ^IVE little white heads peeped out of the mold, 
When the dew was damp and the night was cold ; 

And they crowded their way through the soil with 
pride ; 

" Hurrah ! We are going to be mushrooms ! " they 
cried. 

But the sun came up, and the sun shone down, 
And the little white heads were withered and brown ; 
Long were their faces, their pride had a fall — 
They were nothing but toad-stools, after all. 



BABY'S LETTER. 

'np HIS sheet, covered with idle, trailing lines, 
Jagged, irregular, and rude, 
Never to written word or ill-formed signs 
Bearing a chance similitude, 

Is to your eye only a careless scrawl, 
Wherein no purport can be read ; 

You see no meaning in these marks at all, 
But inky stains and blots instead. 

I know what baby fingers held the pen, 
And with what earnest, anxious care 

The tiny hand strove with the task, and then 
Gave up the effort in despair. 



BABY'S LETTER. 



And so, folding the sheet with gentle touch, 
This scrawl I keep, and prize above 

Some fairer lines that mean not half so much, 
Reading herein my baby's love. 



CONSOLATION. 

"\ T 7 HEN Molly came home from the party 
to-night,-— 

The party was out at nine,— 
There were traces of tears in her bright blue eyes 

That looked mournfully up to mine. 

For some one had said, she whispered to me, 

With her face on my shoulder hid, 
Some one had said (there were sobs in her voice) 

That they didn't like something she did. 

So I took my little girl up on my knee, — 

I am old and exceedingly wise, — 
And I said, " My dear, now listen to me ; 

Just listen, and dry your eyes. 



CONSOLA TION. 



" This world is a difficult world, indeed, 

And people are hard to suit, 
And the man who plays on the violin 

Is a bore to the man with the flute. 

" And I myself have often thought, 
How very much better 't would be, 

If every one of the folks that I know 
Would only agree with me. 

" But since they will not, the very best way 
To make this world look bright 

Is, never to mind what people say 
But to do what you think is right." 



THE YELLOW PANE. 

"ITT" HEN overhead the gray clouds meet, 

And the air is heavy with mist and rain, 
She clambers up to the window seat. 
And watches the storm through the yellow pane. 

At the painted window she laughs with glee ; 

She smiles at the clouds with a sweet disdain, 
And calls : " Now, papa, it's sunshine to me," 

As she presses her face to the yellow pane. 

Dear child, in life should the gray clouds roll, 
Heavy with grief, o'er thy path amain, 

Stealing the sunlight from thy soul, 
God keep for thee somewhere a yellow pane. 



WAITING. 

TT? ACH day when my work was ended, 
I saw, as I neared my home, 
A sweet little face at the window-pane, 
That was watching for papa to come. 

The blue eyes closed one morning, 

And I knew that never again 
Should I see ray baby watching for me. 

With her face at the window-pane. 

Yet I fancied to-night that I heard her 

Call, just as she used to do, 
When she heard my step at the open gate ; 

" Come, papa. I'm waiting for you." 



WAITING. 



And I think that maybe she is waiting, 

As of old, in the soft twilight, 
She watched, when the long day's task was done. 

To welcome me home at night. 

Some time, when my work is ended, 

I shall see, as I near my home, 
A dear little face in Paradise, 

That is watching for papa to come. 



ESTHER. 

O HE stood upon the threshold of the court; 
Her fair young form attired in royal robes, 
While through the flashings of a thousand gems, 
Shone out the beauty that had won a king. 
A moment there she paused with bended head, 
As one, whose startled memory aroused 
By instant vision of a sudden death, 
Passes in quick review forgotten years. 
Once more a girl she roamed through sunny fields 
With comrades, light at heart and gay as she ; 
Or, as the gathering shades of evening fell, 
She watched the purple shadows in the west, 
And heard, from him whose care so well supplied 
Parental love, the story of her race, 
The ancient splendors of Jerusalem, 



ESTHER. 



And the o'er watching care of Israel's God. 

And now to die ! Was it for this that she 

Was crowned ? For this, her beauty touched the 

king ? 
Better have lived a humble Hebrew maid, 
Than thus to die. Then sounded in her ears 
Again these words ; " Who knoweth whether thou 
Art to the kingdom come for such a time 
As this ? " Proudly she lifted up her head ; 
Stepping as one who bore a nation's fate, 
And whispering, " If I die, I die," she passed 
Into the presence chamber of the king. 



WHOM THE LORD HATH SAVED. 

JAMES A. GARFIELD — DIED SEPTEMBER I9, A. D. 1881. 

'^ 1 7 HITE robe, blue eye, and flaxen hair, 
She knelt to say her evening prayer, 
The old petition, that in sleep 
She prayed the Lord her soul would keep. 
Then, as on all the shadow lay, 
And hope grew fainter day by day, 
And faith, with earnest steadfast eyes 
Looked up for help beyond the skies, 
So from her lips the same prayer went ; 
And, dear God, save the President." 

With no rude clangor of alarm. 
No loud voiced presager of harm, 
Mournful and sad the throbbing knell, 
At midnight, of the passing bell. 



WHOM THE LORD HA TH SA VED. log 

Waked by the sound, ber wondering eyes 

Met our sad faces with surprise. 

As, bending down we softly said, 
" Darling, the President is dead," 

She asked with awe and wonderment, 
"And did God save the President ? " 

Not as we asked, whose prayer and praise 
But feebly comprehend thy ways ; 
Not as we will — Thy will be done, 
In thine own way the victory won. 
Safe from all earthly woes and fears, 
Where God shall v/ipe away all tears. 
From envy, malice, and from sin, 
From strife without, and care v»?ithin, 
From doubting days in sorrow spent. 
The Lord hath saved the President. 



AT THE GOLDEN GATE. 

T T PON her wedding robe the dew is damp ; 

Poor, weary, foolish fair, 

Who with gem-circled arms and empty lamp 

Stands waiting, listening, there. 

Brief space her erring sisters made their moan ; 

Nor did they lingering wait, 
But left her in her dumb despair, alone 

Before the golden gate. 

*' Come, follow us," they cried ; *' the Bridegroom spurns 

Our tardy homage. Haste ! 
For black night falls. Since He no more returns, 

Why here the moments waste?" 



A T THE GOLDEN GA TE. 



" Lo, still some gallant waits ; and love is swc-et, 

And life is fair ; and yet 
Somewhere the lute shall stir our dancing feet, 

If we can but forget." 

Silent she stood, nor turned ; for love was dear, 

So dear, it was her choice 
To wait and listen, if she might but hear 

Only the Bridegroom's voice. 

So stood she ; loving, though the door was barred, 

Thus sorrowful to wait, 
Repentant, though her punishment was hard, 

Before the golden gate. 

When the night falls, who knows what mercy waits 

To pardon guilt and sin ? 
Perchance the Lord himself unbarred the gates 

And led the wanderer in. 



RESEMBLANCE. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF SULLY-PRUDHOMME. 

"XTOV tell me, dear, you wish that I 

Could say from whence my longings be. 
I love you, sweet, and this is why : 
You are so like my youth to me. 

Your deep black eyes are filled with tears 
Of sadness, or of hope, maybe ; 

You dream of life and coming years : 
You are so like my youth to me. 

Your head is like pure marble white, 
As Grecian skies are fair to see 

"Whose whiteness shines in azure light : 
You are so like my youth to me. 



RESEMBLANCE. 113 



I reach toward you my hand each day, 
That you and I might comrades be. 

But you go ever on your way : 
You are so like my youth to me. 



EUTHANASIA. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF THl^OPHILE GAUTIER. 

T 1 THITE butterflies above the lake 
Hover in snowy swarms and fair ; 
Ah, vx'ould that I their wings could take 
And follow them through the blue air. 

And, tell me, do you know, sweetheart, 
My gipsy, dark-eyed as the night, 

Could they to me their power impart, 
Know you where I would wing my flight ? 

I would not stop the rose to sip, 
Nor yet through vale or forest fly. 

But speed me to thy pouting lip. 

Flower of my soul, and there I'd die. 



THE BROKEN VASE. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF SULLY-PRUDHOMME. 

'\ 7'ON vase, where dies the mignonette, 

By a fan's careless touch was cracked ; 
A stroke which only grazed, nor yet 
Revealed by sound its light impact. 

But this slight wound, faint and obscure, 
Eating the crystal day by day, 

With march invisible and sure 
Has through it slowly made its way. 

Till of the cooling water drained. 
And holding but those faded sprays. 

Its ruin is too well explained, — 
Touch it not, 't is a broken vase ! 



ii6 THE BROKEN VASE. 

So oft the blow from some loved hand 
Touching the heart, it wounded lies, 

Though stricken neVr so lightly, and 
The flower of love withers and dies. 

Intact to worldly eyes, it knows, 
With secret tears, bitter and hot. 

How fast and deep the fissure grows ; — 
'T is broken, broken ; touch it not I 



THE MAID AND HER NEIGHBOR. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF DE MUSSET. 



I 



CAN see my neighbor's curtain ; 
Hush ! the corner's lifting there. 
She is coming, I am certain, 
For a breath of summer air. 

Just behind the blind she's keeping, 
And I feel my pulses stir 

As she, through the lattice peeping. 
Wonders if I'm watching her. 

Foolish hopes ! the dream is over, 
For I know the charming maid 

Has a blockhead for her lover. 
'Tis the wind that lifts her shade. 



IF I COULD TELL. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF RICHOMME. 

T F I could tell 

The love I bear thee, 
Then wouldst thou hear me, 
And love me well. 

Take thou my heart, 't is thine alone ; 
For since the hour of our first meeting 
For thee alone my heart is beating, 
Nor will it other mistress own. 

Take thou my wealth, it is for thee ; 
Without thee it could bring no pleasure, 
Nor could it all buy one such treasure 
As the dear smile thou givest me. 



IF I COULD TELL. 



Take thou my name, for it is thine ; 
Over my heart forever reigning, 
With each fond word new power gaining, 
So shalt thou be forever mine. 



THE OLD TRAMP. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF B:I&RANGER. 

TT ERE in this gutter let me die ; 
I finish, old, infirm and tired. 
" He 's drunk," will say the passers-by; 

'T is well, — their pity's not desired. 
I see some turn their heads away, 

While others toss to me their sous. 
On to your junket ! run, I say ! 
Old tramp, — in death I need no help from you. 

Yes, here I'm dying of old age; 

Of hunger people never die. 
I hoped some almshouse might assuage 

My suffering when the end was nigh ; 



THE OLD TRAMP. 



But filled is every retreat, 

So many people are forlorn. 
My nurse, alas ! has been the street. 

Old tramp, — here let me die where I was born 

In youth, it used to be my prayer 

To craftsmen, — " Let me learn your trade." 
" Clear out — we have no work to spare ; 

Go, beg," was the reply they made. 
You rich, who bade me work, I've fed 

With relish on the bones you threw ; 
Made of your straw an easy bed : 

Old tramp, — and now I have iw curse for you. 

I might, poor wretch, have robbed with ease ; 

But no, better to beg instead. 
At most I've stripped the wayside trees 

Of apples ripening overhead. 
Yet twenty times have I been thrown 

In prison, — 't is the King's decree ; 
Robbed of the only thing I own, — 

Old tramp, — at least the sun belongs tc me. 



THE OLD TRAMP. 



The poor — is any country his ? 

What are to me your grain, your wine, 
Your glory and your industries, 

Your orators ? They are not mine. 
And when a foreign foe waxed fat 

Within your undefended walls, 
I shed my tears, poor fool, at that : 

Old tramp, — his hand was open to my calls. 

Why, like an insect made to kill, 

Did you not crush me when you could ? 
Or, better yet, have taught me skill 

To labor for the common good ? 
Into an ant the grub may turn 

If sheltered from the bitter blast ; 
And so might I for friendship yearn : 

Old tramp, — I die your enemy at last. 



FIFTY YEARS. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF BERANGER. 

11 THEREFORE these flowers? floral applause? 
Ah, no, these blossoms came to say 
That I am growing old, because 

I number fifty years to-day. 
O rapid, ever-fleeting day ! 

O moments lost, I know not how! 
O wrinkled cheek and hair grown gray ! 
Alas, for I am fifty now ! 



Sad age, when we pursue no more — 
Fruit dies upon the withering tree ; 

Hark ! some one raps upon my door. 
Nay, open not. 'Tis not for me, — 



FIFTY YEARS. 



Or else the doctor calls. Not yet 
Must I expect his studious bow. 

Once I'd have called, " Come in, Lizette." 
Alas, for I am fifty now I 

In age what aches and pains abound : 

The torturing gout racks us awhile; 
Blindness, a prison dark, profound ; 

Or deafness that provokes a smile. 
Then Reason's lamp grows faint and dim 

With flickering ray. Children, allow 
Old Age the honor due to him. 

Alas, for I am fifty now ! 

Ah, heaven I the voice of death I know, 

Who rubs his hands in joyous mood : 
The sexton knocks and I must go, — 

Farewell, my friends the human brood ! 
Below are famine, plague, and strife ; 

Above, new heavens my soul endow : 
Since God remains, begin, new life 1 

Alas, for I am fifty now ! 



FIFTY YEARS. 



But no, 'tis you, sweetheart, whose youth. 

Tempting my soul with dainty ways. 
Shall hide from it the somber truth, 

This incubus of evil days. 
Springtime is yours, and flowers ; come then, 

Scatter your roses on my brow, 
And let me dream of youth again. 

Alas, for I am fifty now I 



THE GADFLY. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF L^RANGER. 

T N the midst of our laughter and singing, 

'Mid the clink of our glasses so gay, 
What gadfly is over us winging, 

That returns as we drive him away ? 
'T is some god. Yes, I have a suspicion 

Of our happiness jealous, he's come. 
Let us drive him away to perdition, 

That he bore us no more with his hum. 

Transformed to a gadfly unseemly, 
I am certain that we must have here 

Old Reason, the grumbler, extremely 
Anno3'ed by our joy and our cheer. 



THE GADFLY, 127 



He tells us in tones of monition 
Of clouds and of tempests to come. 

Let us drive him away to perdition, 
That he bore us no more with his hum. 

It is Reason who comes to me, quaffing, 

And says, " It is time to retire : 
At your age one stops drinking and laughing, 

Stops loving, nor sings with such fire ; " — 
An alarm that sounds ever its mission 

When the sweetest of flames overcome. 
Let us drive him away to perdition, 

That he bore us no more with his hum. 

It is Reason 1 Look out there for Lizzie I 

His dart is a menace alway. 
He has touched her, she swoons — she is dizzy ; 

Come, Cupid, and drive him away, 
Pursue him. Compel his submission, 

Until under your strokes he succumb. 
Let us drive him away to perdition. 

That he bore us no more with his hum. 



THE GADFLY. 



Hurrah, Victory ! See, he is drowning 

In the wine that Lizetta has poured. 
Come, the head of Joy let us be crowning, 

That again he may reign at our board. 
He was threatened just now with dismission, 

And a fly made us all rather glum ; 
But we've sent him away to perdition ; 

He will bore us no more with his hum. 



UGLINESS AND BEAUTY. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF B^RANGER. 

T AM quite overcome by her beauty, 

Maybe I'm deceived by a mask. 
Make her plain and repellant as duty ; 

Let her be even ugly, I ask. 
While so charming, ah, who could but love her ? 

O powers of heaven and hell ! 
O spirits below and above her ! 

Make her plain ; let me love her as well. 

Then appeared at my words of complaining 
Satan, father of darkness and night. 
" Make her plain," said he, " this you'll be gaining, 
That your rivals will flee at her sight. 



xy> UGLINESS AND BE A UTV. 

I am fond of these metamorphoses, 
Lo, singing approaches the belle. 

Fall pearls, fade bloom, wither roses. 
See I she's plain, and you love her as well." 

** Me, plain I " she cried. " Sure 't is an error," 

Saying which, to her glass she drew near. 
First in doubt, and then all in terror 

To fall, fainting with sorrow and fear. 
" Swear for me and me only to live, dear," 

Cried I at her feet as I fell. 
" Here's the one faithful heart I can give, dear. 

Plainer still, I would love you as well." 

Then her eyes grew so heavy with weeping 

That her grief touched my heart for awhile. 
" Give her back all the charms you are keeping,' 

And Satan said, ** yes," with a smile. 
As the first faint blush of the morning 

Her beauty returned like a spell. 
New graces her fairness adorning, 

Sweeter still, and I loved her as well. 



UGLINESS AND BEAUTY. 



Then quickly her mirror regaining, 

She found not a charm out of place, 
As, half to herself complaining. 

She wiped off the tears from her face. 
Satan fled, and the fair one, my booty, 

Left me, with these words like a knell : 
' The girl whom God makes a beauty 

Cannot love one who loves her so well.' 



T 



ROSETTE. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF STRANGER. 

HOUGH in the spring of life, forsooth, 

You speak of love to me, I say. 
When, crushed by forty years, my youth 

Alas, has vanished, passed away. 
And yet, how simple was her sphere 

Who once my heart aflame could set. 
Alas, I cannot love you, dear, 

As once I loved Rosette. 



Your equipage through all the town 
Bears you luxurious every day ; 

While Rosette, in a fresh print gown. 
Tripped slowly, smiling on her way. 



ROSETTE. 133 



Her bright eyes roused my jealous fear, 
Whose glances well might love beget. 

Alas, I cannot love you, dear, 
As once I loved Rosette. 

A thousand mirrors catch your smile, 

Where in your rich boudoir you sit. 
She had one glass ; but, all the while, 

I knew the Graces gave her it. 
On her the morning sun shone clear ; 

No curtains round her bed were set. 
Alas, I cannot love you, dear, 

As once I loved Rosette. 

Your mind, so brilliant, fine and true, 

More than one poet inspires indeed. 
I'm not ashamed to say to you 

Rosette knew scarcely how to read. 
Why need she read ? Within her ear 

Love told a tale who can forget. 
Alas, I cannot love you, dear, 

As once I loved Rosette. 



134 ROSETTE. 



Maybe than you she was less fair ; 

Perchance she had a heart less true ; 
Nor could she with so sweet an air 

Turn to a lover's vows as you. 
One vanished charm was hers I fear, — 

My youth, which vainly I regret. 
Alas, I cannot love you, dear, 

As once I loved Rosette. 



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